


Promenade

by leepala



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 14:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20391535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leepala/pseuds/leepala
Summary: Aziraphale lets himself be guided by the firm bracket of Crowley’s arms, taken aback. This is truly proper dancing. The strong tension in the push of Crowley's guiding hand, the careful slide of his socked feet across wood. He's seen Crowley faff about a discotheque, and this doesn't even count as the same category of movement.





	Promenade

There’s a lot of comfort to the dusty scratch-mumble that accompanies an old-fashioned record player. It’s a proper Victrola, ancient and silver horned, though naturally it will play any beebop a listener may demand of it. Not tonight, though. And while the standard is classical, this evening Crowley has managed to update it to some of their mid-century favorites (Twentieth century, that is. When so many have passed, it’s best to specify). Aziraphale is always a soft touch for those gentle strings and slow crooning of the era. Says he finds it romantic. Crowley finds himself lifting heels to the three-beat lilt of it, crossing the cottage to set wine and glasses on the side table.

He leans over where Aziraphale is curled on the couch, extends a hand palm upwards over the book open on his lap. Aziraphale glances up: Crowley is blushing along his collarbones beneath his henley, but he meets Aziraphale's gaze. "Dance with me, angel?"

Aziraphale breaks into a radiant grin, reflected back to him in Crowley's smile, that soft and awed one he gets sometimes as if he’s staring into the sun. "Oh, of course, darling.” He lets Crowley pull him to his feet, dropping the book onto the sofa. “I, ah,” he hesitates, hands hovering between them. “I mean, I do  _ understand  _ the waltz, of course, thought I don’t particularly-”

“I know how,” Crowley says, reeling Aziraphale in, slipping an arm comfortably around his waist and taking his right hand in his left. Aziraphale’s arm falls naturally to Crowley’s shoulder, fingers brushing warm skin where his shirt collar ends. “I’ll lead,” he taps Aziraphale’s right foot with his toes, “This one back first, then left.”

Aziraphale lets himself be guided by the firm bracket of Crowley’s arms, taken aback. This is truly proper dancing. The strong tension in the push of Crowley's guiding hand, the careful slide of his socked feet across wood. He's seen Crowley faff about a discotheque, and this doesn't even count as the same category of movement. 

"When on earth did you learn to waltz so well, darling?"

"Learned it in, ah.... I dunno, 1820 maybe." Crowley's eyes are soft, smile just pulling at the corners and echoed at the side of his lips. "Vienna - learn to do it proper if you're going to learn at all, eh?"

As if emphasizing the point he turns a quick Viennese step canter timed, Aziraphale making a slight noise of startle as he's pulled along deftly. Crowley falls back into their previous rise-fall, and Aziraphale laughs breathily. "And why exactly was a demon busying himself with learning the waltz in Vienna?”

Crowley scoffs, pinking slightly at the arch of his cheekbone. "Come on, you remember what a scandal waltzing was back in the day. All that," he voice goes low, arm at the curve of Aziraphale's back pulling him in close, fingers spreading wide as his palm grazes downward, " _ Touching _ ."

Aziraphale flusters and stumbles just slightly in step. Crowley chuckles, little room to slip in the firm frame of his arms. Their pace slows as the space between them decreases, and Crowley presses his cheek into the soft curl of Aziraphale's hair. "Anyway I.” The rumble of his voice tickles the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, “...I wanted to make sure I knew it, in case I ever got the chance to ask you to dance."

Aziraphale buries his face into the cream freckle curve of Crowley's neck, smiling soft and flushing warm. "What a terrible sap," he mumbles, and Crowley prods him in the side with the hand wrapped around his back. 

"You love it," Crowley chides, blushing proper now, burying his nose into Aziraphale's cotton-soft curls to press a kiss against his temple.

“I do,” Aziraphale says, tone tinted with his smile. Pulls back enough to look up at him, pleased at the way Crowley tries desperately to tamp down on the flush across his cheeks. He can’t help but prod at it. “You know there’s not a single thing about you I don’t love, my dearest.”

Crowley makes a little sound from his throat, pulling Aziraphale tighter and closing his eyes, mortification and pleasure intertwined too tight to parse apart. “Shut U _ nph _ -” protest dies on his lips, swept away with the familiar way Aziraphale kisses at the corner of his mouth, tease and promise. He turns his head to catch Aziraphale’s lips properly, dance slowed to a gentle sway as they kiss into the silence, Victrola buzzing the end of record static into the warm air.


End file.
